


they made you all these things (you were beautiful every time)

by notcaycepollard



Series: the grace in monsters [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Tumblr ficlet, soft mythical creature bucky barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 15:25:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8019220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>soft mythical creature Bucky Barnes: a collection of tumblr ficlets too short for their own AO3 work listings</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. you're a treasure collected in secret

“He didn’t always used to be that color,” Steve says, and Sam has to take a minute to understand what he means. Bucky is asleep, head tucked under one folded wing, and in the low light his scales are the deep red of old blood. He doesn’t glitter; where he’s in shadow, he’s the matte black of dusty leather or the butt of a gun, anonymous and deadly as any weapon.

“What-” he starts, and Steve looks away, frowns sharp and unhappy.

“Midnight blue, before. When I found him in Azzano, he was already… we’d both changed, I guess.”

“Is he…” _dangerous_ , Sam wants to say, but Bucky is already stirring.

“Steve,” he sighs, rasping and sleep-rough, so goddamn human Sam can’t help but laugh. That has Bucky’s gaze snapping to catch him, and Sam shivers, stands his ground. “ _Oh_ ,” Bucky says, in a different tone of voice entirely. “Little one. You’re the one with the wings. I remember.” Steve makes a noise like he recognizes whatever it is Bucky’s doing. Sam, frankly, has no idea what it is Bucky’s doing, except- if he were human, he’d say this was flirting.

“Yeah?” he asks, irritated and tired and done with all Bucky Barnes’ multitudes of bullshit. “You remember burning one of my wings right goddamn off?”

Bucky blows a smoke ring at him, lazy and amused, and Sam tries hard not to be charmed.

( _He hoards people,_ Steve tells him later, _when they shine enough like treasure._

 _But-_ Sam starts, and Steve just smiles.

 _I could have told you how bright you glow_ , he says, and Sam feels himself blush hot with embarrassment.)

It turns out Steve’s right. Bucky is wound around him, head pillowed on Sam’s chest, trailing his fingers slowly down Sam’s skin.

“God, sweetheart, you glitter so pretty,” he murmurs, lips brushing Sam’s throat. “So golden soft, you’d outshine the sun, Jesus _god_ you would.”

“Is that why you feel the need to lie all over me, huh?” Sam asks, pretending to be outraged. “I’m nothing but your treasure hoard?”

“Cheeky,” Bucky huffs, and a couple of sparks come out with his breath, hardly enough even to sting. “No, sweetheart. You’re more than my hoard. But goddamn, are you mine.”

“Yeah?” Sam says. Runs his fingers through the tangle of Bucky’s hair. “You claimed me, or what?”

“First time I saw you,” Bucky yawns, “you’re _mine_ , I’m keeping you,” and that’s okay with Sam, that’s just fine, because when he flies, these days, it’s on the back of dark wings outstretched, not dark like smoke or shadow but like a raven’s wing all flashes of midnight blue and bottle green, the deepest indigo. Sam glows, and Bucky _glitters_ , and if he’s Bucky’s treasure then Bucky is his, and they get so high up Sam forgets what it is to fall.


	2. cold iron, the shape of things lost

They take his magic, first.

They take his arm, next.

When they fill the space with cold iron, it doesn’t kill him.

They’d done their research. Scientific advancement, after all. _He’ll live forever, you treat him carefully enough_ , and human science can do so much, these days, it can strip the iron poisoning from his blood and keep him alive, just.

It doesn’t stop the pain. He shivers and retches and forgets, the iron buzzing at his mind until he can hold only these two things firm: _you are their weapon. you do not think about what you were, once._

They don’t need to wipe him. They don’t need to freeze him. Fair folk live forever, you treat them carefully enough, and putting him away in a box in a dark room, that counts as ‘careful’ to whoever makes the rules.

( _don’t think about what you were_ , except that Steve was made with fairy magic, clean enough the metal-fatigue fades for a second, two. _don’t think about what you were_.)

The shield is sharp enough to shear the arm away at the shoulder. The rest, stripped from his bones by someone working so gentle and careful it doesn’t hurt at all. They soak him in salt water and moonlight, wash the traces of metal from his skin. Offer him an arm made from ceramic and plastic. Human material, so advanced it seems like magic.

_(you remember what magic felt like._

_don’t think about what you were.)_

He tries to remember, and tries to forget. Steve’s borrowed magic sits awkward against his skin, and it’s too bittersweet to stay close to him for longer than moments at a time. He tries to ignore the faces Steve makes.

 _it’s not you_ , he wants to say, but it is. It’s both of them.

He sits near Sam, instead. Sam’s impassive and wary ( _he had wings and you pulled him out of the sky_ ) and the first time he smiles Bucky feels it like gold, like power, like the magic he’s lost.

 _smile like that again_ , he thinks, and wonders what he can do to encourage it.

Sam knows what it is to lose. Sam screams, in the night, and Bucky brings him- soft blankets. Sweet-smelling tea, steeped from herbs he’s always known how to grow. Raw amethyst under Sam’s pillow. A hundred years ago he’d have whispered words that would charm this away in three heartbeats, but now all he can offer are these small kindnesses, asking nothing and trying and trying and  _hoping-_

The next time Sam smiles, it takes Bucky’s breath away all over again, and Sam  _notices_. Bucky blushes hot like he’s some sixteen-year-old and not an immortal who’s lived three lifetimes already, and that makes Sam smile again, wider. _I made breakfast_ , he says from the kitchen, sweat gleaming on his shoulders, and Bucky thinks about every warning he’s ever heard about eating the food. It goes both ways. It’d be worth getting stuck here, he thinks, he _wants_ to get stuck here, maybe, and he eats, and oh, it’s good, it’s _good_ , he can taste it sweet on his lips. Sam’s watching him like he understands what it means ( _don’t remember what you were_ ) and when Bucky makes eye contact, he smiles, small and knowing, and Bucky loses count of every way he loves this man.

He’d be human, for this man.

 _you’re okay, sweetheart_ , he whispers one night, _you’re gonna be just fine_ , and touches Sam’s cheek, daring and breathless. Sam sighs, soft, a sound that floats up into the night. Pulls Bucky down into the bed, tugs Bucky’s arms around him until he’s wrapped around Sam like wings curled in protective. 

 _just, stay,_ Sam mutters, and Bucky kisses the nape of his neck.

 _I will,_ he says, _I am, I will_ , and he remembers what magic felt like.

_(this is what magic felt like)_

**Author's Note:**

> these usually go up [on tumblr](http://notcaycepollard.tumblr.com/tagged/soft-mythical-creature-bucky-barnes) before being added here! my ask box is open for mythical creature prompts. why is this a thing now. why am I determined to write Bucky Barnes as all the mythical possibilities.


End file.
